


Prophesied

by cjay53



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Harry Potter, Child Abuse, Dark, Dark Magic, Drama, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description, Harry Potter-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Serious, Some Humor, Strong Harry Potter, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjay53/pseuds/cjay53
Summary: A (planned) rewrite of the canon series where Harry knows of the prophecy before he goes to Hogwarts. New knowledge leads to different choices, and where will the choices lead him?More focus on the darker side of the story: how Harry's time at the Durselys impacts him, how major deaths and events affect his mental health and processes, and the pressure that comes along with being prophesied at birth.**There will be graphic violence, romance, angst, etc. Harry is a teenager, after all**
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Props to my friend Hjak, who is an awesome Potterhead and has been helping me with this a bit. Go check out his new fic: The Truth Hurts
> 
> Tags and content warnings will be updated as new content is added.
> 
> Some tags will not apply until later in the story.

**~~~~H~P~~~~** **  
****  
** Sirius Black awoke with an unpleasant feeling. A feeling that something is off, a feeling that everyone experiences before inevitably discovering that something is, in fact, quite wrong. He opened his eyes, taking in the room around him: water was leaking from the ceiling onto the ground at the foot of his yellowing, damp bed, and the stone walls shimmered with the cold reflection of a meager oil lamp. In his opinion, the only place more uncomfortable would have to be Azkaban, or maybe a troll's stomach.

 _No magic,_ he thought resentfully. _This is the shithole given to the Potter secret-keeper?_

As much as Sirius complained to himself, however, he had to admit its effectiveness. He hadn't seen, heard, or even detected a single person with his occasional, boredom-induced ' _Homenum Revelio_ ', in the entire month that he had been there. The Order may have told him not to do magic (it would help avoid detection) but Sirius didn't fancy the prospect of freezing to death in a cold, wet cellar.

He cast a warming charm on himself as he sat up in bed. He glanced over at the battered calendar of bikini-clad muggle women that he had found in one of the cabinets when he arrived several weeks earlier.

 _Saturday, October 31st._ No wonder he has such an irksome feeling. Memories of his childhood floated up to the surface of his mind; memories of past Halloweens spent with his horrid family. His brother, Regulus, would always scare the muggle kids with a revolting Grim mask; it was a family tradition of the Noble and Ancient House of Blacks. Sirius didn't fancy it much, he had never shared his family's hatred of muggles, and didn't understand it. Sirius, being the youngest, had his fair share of mask-induced terror, and found it incredibly strange that his animagus would be a Grim in his later years of Hogwarts. For what reason the two would be intertwined, he could not think.

He grimaced at the barrage of unwelcome memories as he prepared for breakfast. A good deal of his childhood would be better off forgotten, but he also knew that the memories could prove useful in the right situations. Perhaps some food would rid him of these repugnant whispers of the past, he thought, for echoes of his family only deafened him.

~~~~H~P~~~~

As the sunless day progressed, the emotional parasite burrowed deeper into Sirius, draining his energy and filling him with a horrible sense of foreboding and confusion. Something was seriously wrong, or so he thought, but he had not heard anything from the Order, so he ignored the anxiety, convincing himself he had eaten a little too much moldy bread the night before. There wasn’t much else to eat, after all. The minutes crept by until lunchtime, and Sirius found himself using food as a distraction yet again. 

_Hooray, more stale bread and some stale water to match,_ he thought sarcastically. Sure, the food helped with the hunger he was experiencing, but that wasn't the only gut feeling he was having. This, he thought, was the worst part about having a Grim as an animagus, after the damn fleas of course. Even when he was not transfigured, his mind was filled with omens of suffering and unpleasant thoughts. He could never tell if it was just a placebo or not; he was the only Grim animagus in recent history, registered or not. It’s not like he could ask anyone.

Sirius frowned as he looked at the Order safe house around him. Sure, he was safe here, but the security came at the price of extreme boredom. He had spent the last two hours sitting in the same position at the table, for fuck’s sake, dwelling on his past sufferings. It was like the dingy safehouse was a dementor itself.

 _I'd rather be in danger than be this bored,_ he thought. He silently pondered whether he had ever cared about his safety. The answer was an immediate no: becoming an animagus, Sirius reflected, was almost entirely to help his friend, Lupin, avoid self-harm while in werewolf form. Of course, secretly being an animagus had other benefits for the Marauders; Sirius, smirking to himself, recalled how easy it was to steal from the kitchens. He found, deep in his mind, a minuscule amount of pity for the teachers who had to deal with them. _I’m getting soft,_ he thought, chuckling to himself.

It had been many a day since Sirius had laughed, and it surprised him. Being alone in a perpetually damp safehouse for weeks took its toll on his mental health, and the conditions didn’t do anything to alleviate it. He was at the focal point of a wizarding war, acting as bait to protect his best friend from the most powerfully evil wizard of all time. While he had no idea why the Dark Lord was after the Potters, it was Sirius's duty to protect them. They were, in all ways save blood, family. James had filled the fraternal void that Regulus had left behind when he openly declared his dedication to the Dark Arts in Sirius’s 5th year. Sirius had run away from home, fearing that his family would force him to study the dark arts as well, and the Potters took him in.

There were a few times, including at that moment when Sirius ought to have been jealous of James. He imagined that he would have been if he did not know James so well. Sirius had never had a family that he fits into, never had anyone to love besides the Marauders. His blood family had rejected him as soon as he was placed in Gryffindor, and even his House-Elf, Kreacher, had been revolted when the news of Sirius's disposition reached him.

He could not, however, no matter how hard he tried, ever be jealous of James Potter. In Sirius’s opinion, James deserved every blessing that he received. James had taken in Sirius as a brother when he ran away from his home, and had also, Sirius recalled regretfully, saved 'Snivellus' from what would have been a highly amusing prank.

Besides, he thought, Peter Pettigrew had gone through the same experiences, usually placing himself into even more dangerous situations than the other Marauders: Sirius recollects Peter dodging between the colossal branches of the Whomping Willow. Now Peter had also consented to put himself into what was arguably the most dangerous position involved with the Potters' protection.

This was quite strange because Sirius remembers Peter exclusively as a coward hiding in the shadows of James, Sirius, and Lupin. Sirius frowned. Peter had always taken a lot of convincing and the occasional bribe to even go near the Whomping Willow.

His unease grew at this realization. He had checked on Peter the day before; all was well with him. So what was this goddamned anxiety about?

He reached over to the small shelf, grasping one of the only possessions he was allowed to bring, and a few hours crawled past as he lay in bed reading _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , one of his and James' favorite books. It was 5 pm when a wave of anxious discomfort washed over him like a tsunami; it was unbearable. He simply could not focus, could not think of anything else. The anxiety, the dread, was emanating from his very core; his very soul. The foreboding enveloped him like a cloak.

Perhaps some food- _No_ . He thought determinedly, _I need to actually fucking_ do _something, anything, to stop this bullshit._ Contorted images of his friends filled his mind; he was seeing terrible, terrible things happening to them. Things that filled him with horror at the very prospect.

Surely James and Lily are safe. It was just the Grim in Sirius poisoning his mind. They were well protected, expertly concealed; nobody can get to them, he thought despairingly. He tried to remind himself that the Order had not contacted him, so there must be nothing wrong, but the feeling did not cease.

He looked around for his Phoenix Coin, a galleon lookalike with an insignificant branding of the fiery bird that had been charmed to grow hot if the Order needed help. Sirius thought it quite clever, but he didn't have any time to admire its simple genius as he scurried around his room, overturning furniture, trying to find the damn thing.

Sirius was starting to panic; something bad could very well be happening and he would have no idea. How could he have lost the coin? Last he remembered, it was still wholly secure in his jacket's breast pocket, courtesy of a strong sticking charm.

It must be at Peter's safehouse, he thought, there was nowhere else it could be. He had been nowhere else, and he remembered having it while he visited the day before. He forced himself into a calmer state and started to adorn himself in traveling clothes. He grabbed his charmed dragonhide jacket and felt one last time for the coin. Nope, not there, he assured himself. The jacket had been a gift from James, it was one of Sirius's favorite possessions. Its main feature, among many (minor spell repulsion, fire shielding, temperature regulation, etc), was that it completely erased the discomfort of Apparition, which Sirius had struggled with for years. It was only on rare occasions that he managed to hold in his bile after apparating. He put on the coat, strapped on his dragonhide boots and gloves (it was cold), and without a moment wasted, apparated to Peter Pettigrew's safehouse in Bollington.

~~~~H~P~~~~

Sirius appeared with a _pop!_ in the enclosed yard of Peter's safehouse. Sirius allowed himself to be jealous of the house because while Sirius was stuck in a damp shithole, Peter got to stay in a cozy little cottage with a fireplace and enough oil lamps to light the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

The safehouse today, however, was much less inviting than it had been yesterday. There was no smoke coming from the brick chimney, no lamps were lit, and the darkness behind the windows was deeper than the shadows of the late evening. This seemed a red flag to Sirius, so he drew his wand and made his way up the stone path towards the front door. He cautiously extended a gloved hand and grasped the doorknob. The metal was cold, even through his gloves. His unease grew further.

He twisted the knob, found it locked, and entered after a muttered _Alohomora_. The aroma of woodsmoke filled his nostrils, but no fire was burning. The magical door locked behind him. It was quite a contrast to the day before when a roaring fire filled the mantel and it was warm enough to remove his coat and set it down on a chair at the kitchen table. As he scanned the dark room, looking for any signs of movement, he slowly moved towards a nearby lamp and lit it with a tap of his wand. The lamp flickered with the same pathetic yellow light that he had become familiar with in his own safehouse.

Sirius now realized why so many were needed, it barely lit up any of the room, he thought, as he looked around. _We are magical, why are we using these pathetic lamps?_ His eyes caught on the cobblestone mantelpiece, where a curious orange-red light was shining from behind an empty picture frame. He made his way over to the mantel, not bothering to be cautious as curiosity filled him. The room was filled with musky furniture, and in the low light, Sirius found himself tripping over a damp woolen armchair as he walked, eyes glued to the strange light.

He quickly moved the cold metal picture frame out of the way, but strangely enough - it _wasn't_ cold. It was rather warm, and as Sirius looked down at the light, realization dawned on him.

His own Phoenix Coin shone up at him, glowing red hot, burning into the wooden shelf of the mantelpiece. The smoky smell faintly registered in his mind, and he reached towards the coin, sharply recoiling as he touched its scorching surface.

"Damnit," he muttered, examining his burnt fingertips. At his touch, the coin began to cool down, as Phoenix Coins were charmed to do. Sirius stuck it back in his breast pocket with a permanent sticking charm (he was taking no chances this time) and stood thinking for a moment.

He recalled that Peter had moved his coat from the dining chair to the coatrack the night before while he was using the men's room. He had thought nothing of it at the time, he assumed that Peter was simply tidying up the table for the mediocre dinner that followed not long afterward. A new theory now rose to the surface of Sirius's mind, a theory that disgusted him. Peter was always a coward; always working for his own benefit. Had the other side offered him more than the Order? Was it possible that Peter had stolen and hidden Sirius's coin so that he wouldn't know when the order needed him? It didn't make any sense - and yet it did. He needs to go to Godric's Hollow now, he thought, because his coin has been lighting up for Merlin knows how long and the Order needs his help. Even if he can't see the Potter estate, it would still bring him solace because it meant that the Potters are still alive and that the Fidelius charm is still active.

Sirius, hanging on one last hope, yelled, "WORMTAIL! Are you here? It's Padfoot!", but it provoked no response; the house was empty, and Sirius’s mind filled with trepidation as horrible images of his friends flashed across it once again. “ _Alohomora._ ” He burst through the unlocked door and twisted into apparition.

~~~~H~P~~~~

The air in Godric's Hollow was warm, despite the time of year. The streets were full of kids adorned in costumes and wide smiles full of candy. Halloween in Godric's Hollow was always a happy time, Sirius thought, remembering the holidays he had spent at the Potter estate after his graduation. He never got involved in the festivities, because he was "too old", but he enjoyed seeing happy children experiencing the holiday without a Grim mask present.

Sirius couldn't help the nostalgia as he quickly made his way up the street towards where he knew the Potter residence used to reside. If all were well, he would simply see the familiar street without the Potter estate; it would be mysteriously wiped away, and nearby properties would stretch and warp to fill the gap, as was the nature of the Fidelius charm. The charm made sure that you could not tell that anything was there at all unless you were told so by a secret-keeper. Sirius, who was not a secret-keeper, would not see it, even if he knew where it would normally be. This of course was the case on all of his previous visits and checkups. 

Sirius rounded the corner and stopped abruptly as if he had run into a wall of brick. The Potter estate stood before him, exactly where he remembered it to be. He knew how the Fidelius charm worked, and he quickly realized the implications.

Trying to stem the flow of presumptions that filled his thoughts, he ran toward to house. The house wasn't large, it had two stories, two bedrooms, etc., the perfect amount for an average family and the occasional visitor. A wonderful house to raise a child in.

He stopped short of the front door, looking up at the second story where he knew Harry's room to be. Sirius stood flabbergasted, _where are the fucking walls?_ He thought. It was blown apart, bricks lay in the grass surrounding it. He could hear crying coming from the ruined room above him.

Sirius later realized that nothing, even prior knowledge, would have prepared him for the horrors within the house. He walked towards the door, which was hanging ajar. He pushed it open and in the low light saw the shape of his best friend, his brother, his only family, lying on the wooden floor at the foot of the stairs.

Terror enveloped Sirius's mind as he walked towards his friend's body. The room was dark and cold; his mind blank. As he knelt next to his friend, his brother, his only family, he could not think. He knew that James was dead, and yet - he looked so peaceful. His frozen expression was one of acceptance and determination. He knew he was going to die, and Avada Kedavra did its job; nothing else can kill without leaving any mark. James' body may be untouched, but the friend that Sirius knew was gone forever. _How could someone completely void of life look more peaceful than anyone full of life?_ Sirius thought darkly.

The sobs above him abruptly ceased with the familiar _pop!_ of apparition. Sirius rose, averting his eyes from James' body, and ascended the stairs, remembering Harry and Lily. Sirius dragged his feet to Harry's room, bracing himself for whatever lay on the other side He opened the door and was not surprised to see Lily on the floor, arms were thrown wide as if to shield the crib behind her. The room felt dark and cold; like great curtains were blotting out any light or warmth, and a freezing draft was coming through the now-open doorway. This feeling was all too familiar to Sirius; it was the feeling of dark magic, of dementors, of death; the feeling of Voldemort. Terror was gripping Sirius's body like a huge invisible fist; squeezing him, threatening to crush him, and yet he was not afraid. Voldemort was nowhere to be seen. His mind was still blank, he did not react to Lily's peacefully still body. He knew he was in shock, and did not want to stay long enough for it to wear off. The house was silent and unmoving, as were the bodies. It was a stillness so deep that it could be mistaken as absolute peace, but it was the opposite. Nothing was peaceful about it.

The silence was broken by a muffled “ _mama?_ ” coming from the crib. Sirius turned his attention to Harry Potter, the son of Lily and James; _his godson_. He did not have time to ponder why Harry was alive, or why the room was blown apart. He walked over to Harry, his gaze resting on the boy’s forehead. He noticed that Harry had an angry scar on his forehead, red against his pale skin. It was zig-zagged, piercing his dark hairline like a lightning bolt striking the earth. Sirius picked up the small boy, cradling him in his arms as James had taught him. Harry was cold, colder than he should be; and yet the scar radiated an evil heat. Sirius had a sudden and overwhelming urge to leave, as soon as possible. He could not stay there any longer, he had to get himself and Harry away from the cursed place. 

Sirius stumbled down the stairs, trying to divert his gaze from James' empty body, and made his way out of the house. He dare not look back at the evil place. How could Voldemort have found them here? How did he get past the Fidelius charm?

Of course, Sirius knew. He had known since the moment that he knew of Peter's absence from his safehouse. Wormtail had betrayed the Order and had betrayed his friends. There was no mistaking that James and Lily Potter were both dead because of Peter.

 _I shouldn't give him so much credit; the filthy rodent,_ Sirius thought morbidly. _This is my fault._ Sirius knew he could never forgive himself; he was the one who convinced them to change the secret-keeper, but he could never forgive Peter for this either. He could not fathom why Peter had done this. His mind darted around blindly, but one word stuck out: _cowardice_.

This is why when Hagrid suddenly appeared, demanding that Sirius gave Harry to him on Dumbledore's orders, Sirius hesitated for a couple of seconds, his godson had lost his family. Should he be leaving him so soon? No, but he refused to let his godson live in a world where that thing is alive. He at least owed that to James… He knew that there would be consequences for killing Peter, but he didn't care. Sirius remembered his motorcycle, resting in the Potter’s garage where they had been safekeeping it.

"Take the bike, Hagrid, I won't need it anymore," Sirius says to Hagrid with a look of morbid determination.

"Why won' you be needin' it?" Hagrid asks between raspy gulps, tears streaming into his beard. The poor half-giant was also good friends with the Potters. Sirius turned away and didn’t answer. The stages of grief were supposed to be a straight line, but to Sirius, it felt more like a big clusterfuck: every stage was hitting him in succession before receding into shadow to wait for its next turn. It was happening so quickly that Sirius was left dazed, he could not register the emotions before they were crippling him and disappearing again. One was clear, however: anger. Tears were streaming down his face, his jaw was clenched, and his eyes were full of determination. Every breath he took was one that James would never have the chance to, and Sirius was going to make sure that Peter wouldn’t either.

\- - - - -

**~~~~H~P~~~~**

\- - - - -

Mrs. Arabella Doreen Figg of Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging, lives alone. She is just like any other old widow: she has a lot of cats, her house smells of cabbage, and she will talk your ear off if given the opportunity. Unfortunately for her, those opportunities are scarce, and she is usually left rather lonely. If anyone stuck around long enough to listen, however, they would learn that she has some interesting stories of her late husband and son, being raised in a magical family, and her magical professions later in life. Some tales she keeps to herself, chiefly her experiences with the horrible grief that came along with being a squib in the ’40s and ’50s. How she tried to ignore her parents' obvious disappointment and avoid feeling resentful towards her siblings as they disappeared for months at a time, coming back with magical objects and stories of fantastical spells, potions, and creatures unseen by her alone.

She loved her family while growing up, they always tried to make her feel included, even when she was estranged by almost everybody else. Before her two brothers and her sister got their Hogwarts letters, they all shared the magic. They all oohed and ahhed at their parents’ display of colorful sparks and wondrous spells. When the time came, and her siblings received their Hogwarts letters, Arabella didn’t get hers. They had heavily suspected that she was a squib for more than six years prior, but she was clinging onto the hope that she was a late bloomer. Arabella eventually accepted it, and her parents tried their hardest to make her happy while her siblings were at school. Over the years, Arabella began to realize that a lot of the alienation she received from the wizarding community was caused more by fear than anything. Magical folk are terrified of life without magic, and that is exactly what squibs are. They are non-magical offspring of magical parents, and their very existence proves that losing magic is possible.

Her parents did as good a job as they could, but there was no way to avoid the sorrow and dismay that Arabella felt. By pure chance, and a very small chance at that (which didn't make her feel any better), she couldn’t use a wand and therefore couldn’t use magic. She sometimes wished that she was a muggle instead; at least she wouldn't be tortured by the knowledge of what she was missing. Squibs are not completely non-magical; they can still see magical creatures, and detect magic - but they still cannot channel or use it. 

She grew fond of reading as she grew up, she loved that it provided her a way to immerse herself in the magical world as if she was experiencing it. She eventually became a Librarian and worked at a muggle school for years. She found it quite boring, however, and decided to find a position where she could learn about the magical world. Even if she did not possess the ability to use magic, she was still in the magical world and wanted to know about it. She quit her job at the muggle school (the pay was terrible anyways) and found a job at Flourish and Blotts, in Diagon Alley. The glass may be half empty, but it’s still half full: she learned to appreciate being in the magical world instead of being resentful about her lack of magic. 

Those 20 years were the most wonderful of her life, she got to spend her time learning about magic, meeting fascinating people, and seeing fantastic beasts (there are all kinds in Diagon Alley). She had long forgotten her resentment against magic users and instead became rather fond of everything magical. She found her husband: a rather handsome wizard from Spain who worked at the Spanish Ministry of Magic. They would talk of magic, plants, creatures; anything that Arabella wanted, and they fell in love. It wasn’t long before they were happily married, and eventually had a son on the way.

Her husband, who was a brave man, left to fight against the forces of Lord Voldemort early in the war and did not return. She was so distraught and depressed that she had stopped living apart from the fact that her heart was still pumping. She wasn’t eating or moving, she was unhealthy, and it led to her miscarriage. The horrible guilt that she had felt as a child and teenager returned, for she felt that she would have been able to save her husband and child if she had possessed the magic that she had been robbed of. The only thing that brought her solace was the Order of the Phoenix reaching out for her help. It gave her something meaningful to do: being a squib meant that it was quite easy to pose as a muggle, and it proved useful for the Order. She spied for them for several years during the war and collected lots of useful information.

Arabella shook herself out of the daze, she had been dwelling on the past so much lately. It was late at night on Halloween, and she had been handing out candy to the muggle children as they strolled the stone walkway to her door. She was sitting on her couch when she heard a dull knock on her door, and anticipating more children, grabbed the candy bowl. When she answered, however, she was extremely surprised to see Albus Dumbledore, richly dressed in a plum purple wizarding cloak and hat. Next to him was Minerva McGonagall, who was dressed in elegant green silk robes and a black witch hat. Her fists clenched around her robes seemed to be the only thing keeping her from collapsing in grief. "Hello, Bella, I don't think we've met?" said Dumbledore. She of course knew that they were in the Order, but had never met them in person. She knew that they were some of the most powerful witches in the Order, and maybe all of Britain, so she quickly put down the bowl of candy and invited them inside.

Dumbledore entered, quickly grabbed a piece of candy from the bowl and, popping it into his mouth, started talking immediately: 

"Now, Arabella, I see no reason to delay the news, so here it is: Voldemort has been defeated." Her response was to stand, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, staring at him. She must be mistaken, surely this wasn’t true.

"You-Know-Who been d-defeated?" She stammered.

"It certainly appears to be so," Dumbledore said, exchanging a stern glance with McGonagall. "But I'm afraid it came at a price: Lily and James Potter are dead." Arabella certainly had not expected that. While not necessarily being friends with the Potters, she knew them through the Order, and she knew them to be a very kind, brave, and good wizard and witch. She had done surveillance for them several times and quite enjoyed their company. She hadn’t seen them in months, however, because they had gone into hiding… 

"Wait a tic. They recently had a son, did they not? Sometime in August, wasn't it?" She asked apprehensively, remembering the boy’s arrival. It had been a light in the dark for the order, the wonder of new life had brought new vigor and determination to the Order. 

“Well Arabella, that is actually what we came to talk about,” said Minerva with a grimace. “Harry survived You-Know-Who’s attack; nobody knows how, and it appears that the Dark Lord vanished when he tried to kill Harry. At least, the evidence certainly… certainly… ” She broke off, her eyes glossing as she looked away.

“What ‘evidence’?” Mrs. Figg asked cautiously. Minerva nervously shuffled her feet, exchanging another glance with Dumbledore, as if silently asking for permission. Dumbledore nodded softly and she continued in a hollow, monotone voice:

“Well, according to Hagrid, James was lying dead at the foot of the stairs, and Lily was lying dead in front of Harry’s crib. Hagrid said that the walls behind Harry’s crib were blown apart, as if by an explosion, but Harry was unharmed, save a scar on his forehead.” she paused, taking a rattling breath before continuing. “Hagrid also described the feeling of dark magic’s presence quite vividly. He had gone into the house to see James and Lily after Sirius Black had left.” Minerva fell silent, folding her arms and fixing her teary gaze on an obscure point in the distance.  
  
Dumbledore politely cut in; it was obvious to everyone that Minerva could say no more on the topic: “The way that James and Lily were found, as well as the rubble, led me to believe that Voldemort went to the Potter estate with the sole goal of killing young Harry. Lily and James tried to stop him but were overwhelmed by his power. I have my suspicions on why Voldemort was unable to finish off Harry, but every possibility is so unlikely that I hardly have a clue which possibility is correct, if any.” 

It seemed to Mrs. Figg that patience would not answer her biggest question, so she asked, “Why was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named trying to kill Harry in the first place? He’s just a baby.”

“Well,” Dumbledore said, “It is neither a light topic nor a quickly explained one, so we’d better sit down, I think.” Dumbledore motioned to the floral-patterned couch in Arabella’s living room with one hand as he summoned a tea tray with the other. The tray landed on the coffee table, and a kettle paired with three teacups appeared on it.

Within seconds the water was boiling and pouring itself into the teacups, and Dumbledore escorted the shaky-legged McGonagall to the couch. Dumbledore scrunched his nose, and turning to Mrs. Figg, asked, “Are you boiling Brussels, by chance?”

She glared at him. “No, why?”

“Well, your house smells rather like cabbage. I apologize if you prefer it that way, but I don’t fancy it much.” He said, extracting his wand. _“Flos Odoratus.”_ The room filled with the pleasant scent of roses as he flourished his wand. He placed his wand on his lap, folding his hands politely, and turned to Mrs. Figg. 

“I am rather fond of that spell, I find myself using it quite often at the school-” he paused as if thinking to himself before continuing. “Bella, I wholeheartedly trust you, I have seen your commitment and loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix. However, I still must warn you and ask that you do not share anything that I tell you today. This information is quite sensitive and equally valuable, so it’s better if you don’t pull go making an Antioch of yourself by telling everyone. Now, I’m sure you’ve heard of prophecies before, perhaps when you were working in Diagon Alley?”

Dumbledore seemed to be watching her for reaction, Mrs. Figg was just blatantly confused: why was he asking her this? In her experience, prophecies were just lies told by fortune tellers to get money.

“There are real prophecies in the wizarding world, and I was lucky enough to be present while a Seer was telling one.” Dumbledore took a deep breath before plunging into an explanation.

“Late last year our divination professor retired and I, being headmaster, was burdened with the task of finding a new one. I interviewed countless self-proclaimed Seers, but it became obvious that finding a real one would be more difficult than I had anticipated. Not a single candidate showed actual Seeing capabilities, and after twenty or so I began to grow bored of it. I was considering eradicating the subject by Minerva’s suggestion; she doesn’t like the subject very much, and I quite agree with her views of the branch being ‘imprecise’ to say the least. 

“I was nearing the end of my patience when my schedule brought me to the Hog’s Head. It was rather relieving, come to think of it, as I had previously been forced to travel out of the country to interview the Seers. Sybil’s family has had real Seers in the past; such as the infamous Cassandra Trelawney, who was Sybil’s great-great-grandmother.

“It was now early February. I had been searching for a Divination professor for months, and after a few minutes spent with Sybil, I feared she would prove another disappointment. I had stood up from my chair, and made my way over to the door, about to politely take my leave, when a real, true prophecy burst out from her. Her body was rigid, her voice low and throaty. I remember quite well because it was the only prophecy I had ever been told, and more than likely the last one I will ever hear. She didn’t remember it afterward, and was quite surprised when I gave her the job.” 

Dumbledore reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small glass vial of silver and wispy substance. Noticing her confusion, Dumbledore chuckled. “When you reach my age and wisdom, you will often find your mind quite full.” He uncorked the vial, sticking his wand through the opening and scooping out the memory. Dumbledore then placed his wand to his forehead; the memory disappearing into his mind. “The prophecy is as follows: _‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…’_ I am now quite sure that the prophecy refers to Harry.”

Dumbledore stopped speaking, watching Mrs. Figg silently as he withdrew the hair-like memory from his head once more and deposited it into the small bottle.

“But the D-Dark Lord is gone n-now, isn’t he? And if you were the one who heard the prophecy, how d-did You-Know-Who even find out?” she stuttered incredulously.

“I suspect that if he has not completely disappeared, he is at least very weak. It seems that Harry has not defeated Lord Voldemort - only delayed him. As for the Dark Lord’s knowledge of the prophecy,” He paused, eyes narrowing, “It is fractured.” He met Arabella’s gaze. “An agent of the Dark Lord was lurking outside the door when the prophecy was made, but he only heard part of it - the part I have just shared with you. It should be enough, I think…” Dumbledore hesitated. “...yes, it would be too much of a risk to tell you more.” Dumbledore again paused to regain his thoughts.

“Anyways, the agent conveyed this information to his master. Voldemort quickly matched Harry to the prophecy and scrambled to eliminate the new threat. Luckily for The Order, however, the very same agent became a spy for us not long after and warned that the Dark Lord would be going after the Potters, and we were able to hide them.” Arabella shuddered as silence once again fell. This was all very well, Arabella thought but it sounded like Harry, who was just a baby, had somehow banished the Dark Lord. She might not be a witch, but she knew enough about magic (and humans in general, she thought) for the prospect of a baby defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to be the most nonsensical thing she had ever heard. McGonagall had already addressed that they didn’t know what had happened, but it did, so she dismissed steered her thoughts away from it. There was the unexplained agent of the Dark Lord switching sides out of nowhere to ask about, but she figured that this information would be wasted on her, much like what remained unsaid of the prophecy. Her mind was bursting; her plans for the night had involved watching TV and petting her cats, so this was certainly a change of pace for her. Seemingly impossible circumstances aside, she thought, why would they tell _her_ all of this? She was a squib whose only redeeming qualities were reading, blending in with muggles, and Occlumency from the Order. She eyed the wizard and witch sitting across from her speculatively. 

“Why are you telling me this? Of all people, why me? I’m just an old squib,” she said, voicing her thoughts. She said this not with shame, but with genuine confusion. She had accepted her condition long ago as well as the treatment that came along with it. This was one of the reasons why she loved the Order so much, they were some of the only wizards and witches who treated her with respect. 

“Because we require your skills,” said Minerva, making Arabella flinch. She had nearly forgotten the presence of the witch; Minerva had been silent for the entire explanation of the prophecy, gazing out of the window at something unseen by the rest of them. The death of the Potters seemed to have a large impact on the poor woman. _She must have taught them at school_ , Arabella thought. She stayed silent, expecting the witch to continue, but was disappointed. It seemed that she had only possessed the willpower to say one sentence; Dumbledore had to again begin talking for her.

“You normally do surveillance for the Order, do you not?”

“Yes, that’s right,” she responded.

“And, being a squib, you are quite good at blending in with Muggles?”

“Yes sir, it’s what I do for the Order.”

“So this should be no different. You will be watching over Harry Potter as he grows up here in Little Whinging, right down the street.” 

Since the moment she opened the door, she had been expecting something like this. Essentially putting Harry under her observation while he is raised was not what she anticipated, but nothing could surprise her after the last 20 minutes. 

_Little Whinging, of all places._ It was almost entirely a Muggle town; full of the strongest Muggle culture that Arabella had ever seen. Every house was the same, from the brick chimney to the dim cupboard under the stairs. The only things that changed from house to house were the weight of the occupants, the brand of car, and the extravagance of the garden; which all seemed to correspond to the husband’s paycheck. Furthermore, the population of Little Whinging seemed to be in constant competition over who was the most stereotypical and boring. If someone was even slightly unusual, she recalled resentfully, they would be greeted with strange, unwelcoming looks and clammy handshakes as she had been.

Now Harry Potter, probably the most extraordinary wizard of the century, was to be raised among the least extraordinary people possible. She voiced this point to Dumbledore, who said that it was where Harry’s last family resided. 

“Who will he live with?” she asked Dumbledore. His response, the Dursleys, provoked a wince from Mrs. Figg. This was the worst family to raise Harry in her opinion, they were racist, unkind, and prejudiced people. 

“I think it is best the Harry be kept away from the magic world as long as possible. By tomorrow he will be the most famous wizard of the century, and I think it safer to raise him away from all of that. This is why I must ask that you keep the magical world and your involvement in it secret from him.” Dumbledore said, eyeing Arabella sternly.

 _Once again_ , Arabella thought, _he is speaking nonsense_. She could accept everything else that he had told her that night, but keeping Harry away from the world he belonged in was the most nonsensical bullshit that she had heard in a long time. The boy was to be dropped into Hogwarts with no knowledge of his past? Harry would be completely unprepared for whatever lies in his future.

On the surface, Arabella agreed, but on the inside, she had different plans. Immediately the old squib was contemplating how she could help Harry, she absolutely could not leave him blind. This was her chance to make up for her past mistakes, mistakes that left her a childless widow.

Arabella politely escorted the unexpected family to the door, and with a reassurance of her understanding, she bid them goodnight. Dumbledore and McGonagall made their way down the stone pathway, and out onto the sidewalk. Dumbledore turned his twinkling eyes onto Arabella, and as he waved goodbye, Arabella felt a tug of Legilimency on her mind. It was a light tug, a gentle prod. Dumbledore twisted into apparition, and Arabella closed the door with a frown.

\- - - - - 

**~~~~H~P~~~~**

\- - - - - 

Sirius raced through the crowded street, dodging between Muggles as he sped past. 

_Damnit_ , he thought angrily, _He’s as evasive as a fucking rat._ With a burst of speed, he managed to gain enough distance on Peter to grab hold of his jacket. The unwelcome grip provoked a burst of panicked speed from Peter, and he tore away down a side alley.

Sirius pursued relentlessly. _This asshole killed my friends,_ he reminded himself with clenched fists. Peter was a traitor, a coward… Sirius would not let down James again; he would get vengeance. He would get justice for his lost friends and their son. 

The side alley opened into a larger street, and Peter immediately bolted left. Sirius ran after him, his knuckles white around his wand. His legs were tired, his lungs were burning, and his heart was aching, but he ignored it. 

The alley reached a dead-end consisting of an apothecary, a food cart, and a swarm of muggles, who were turning their attention to the now-cornered rat and his pursuer. 

_Where are the goddamn Aurors?_ Sirius tipped them off once he had located Peter, and had been chasing him since, trying vainly to corner him. Sirius could only resist the temptation for so long. The killing curse was calling to him.

Peter, realizing his predicament, turned to Sirius, hands behind his back, and yelled, “How could you Sirius?! How could you kill them?”

Sirius was overwhelmed by rage. How dare he? The words entered his mind: _Avada Kedavra_ . He raised his wand, pointing it at Peter. _This is for James, you dick._

“ _Avada-”_

_“Confringo.”_

The silver glint of a blade was all that Sirius saw before a deafening explosion blew apart the alley behind Peter. Sirius staggered from the blast, gasping as he rubbed his soot-filed eyes. Sirius couldn’t tell if the alley was silent or if his ears were still ringing. He pointed his wand at his eyes, cleaning them with a muttered _“Lavum”_.

Sirius looked down at the crater, which was so deep that it had cracked the sewer below. A single finger and a scorched dagger were laying on Peter’s bloodied robes in the center of the crater. There were scattered bodies and burned limbs laying on the ground everywhere that Sirius looked. The alley reeked of death, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. As the muggles in the alley started recovering from the shock, screams started to pierce the air.

His breath caught in his chest. Peter had escaped. He had failed James and Lily _again_. An entire lifetime of guilt and anguish crashed down upon Sirius like a tidal wave as he stood amongst the charred corpses of innocent muggles. It was the worst he had ever felt in his life; he felt utterly worthless. James and Lily had sacrificed so much for him, and he couldn’t even return the favor. In times like these, Sirius found it almost funny how useless he was.

 _I killed them_ , he chuckled as the Aurors arrived, wands pointed at Sirius. _It was my fault!_ He gazed around at them with glassy eyes, searching for any mercy or understanding, but he found none. He laughed out loud. “ _I killed them!_ "

He dropped his wand. The Aurors snapped it and cast a _Petrificus Totalus_ on him. Sirius was hysterically laughing between pained gulps, tears streaming down his face as an Auror grabbed him by the hair and apparated to Azkaban.

Sirius looked around at his new home. Hungry dementors surrounded him, eager to start their feast, but Sirius felt indifferent.

_I’m so sorry James._


	2. Good(?) Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a chat with the local squib.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support so far.  
> The next chapters should be sooner and more consistent; I'm new to writing and had some trouble finding the correct environment.
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains explicit child abuse.

The motorcycle rumbled down the street, tearing through the breeze like a knife through butter. As it gained speed, it began to rise, lifting from the ground into the air. The houses and cars grew smaller and smaller as the motorcycle shot toward the ceiling of cloud above.

The bike broke into the blissful silence of the heavens. A sea of clouds stretched indefinitely before it, and kind, glossy eyes gazed down from among the glittering stars.

The quiet, only infected by the exhaust of the bike, was deep enough that all other sounds were forgotten. There was nothing to worry about up in the sky, up in the solitude - nothing to hurt you, nothing to scare you…

But this time, it was different. The blanket of clouds was growing perpetually darker below, and a low, booming thunder was starting to disrupt the peaceful tranquility of the night, shaking the great cycle as it raced through the wind. Among the great bellowing, there was a second sound budding, a high-pitched but distant screaming. The kind of scream that erects the hairs on your neck. The sky had always been peaceful before… what was happening?

With a deafening crash, the delicate window of quiet was shattered completely, as if smashed by a great hammer of thunder. A green flash lit the night as lightning struck his forehead, and as the deafening thunderclap filled his ears, Harry awoke.

The panicked seven-year-old Harry Potter opened his eyes, his heart racing, and his forehead prickling uncomfortably. He reached up, stroking it, searching for whatever was causing the tickle, but his hands found only the lightning-shaped scar he had received as a baby.

As the tingling died, Harry slowly sat up, drawing shaky breaths. To say the nightmare had caught him off guard was an understatement. He had had the flying motorcycle dream before, and it was always a good dream. The clouds always stayed calm and quiet. Harry felt violated; like something personal had been stolen from him, but he couldn’t figure out why.

Harry’s arms shot over his head as another boom shook the walls and shook dust loose from the ceiling. A succession of smaller booms followed. Harry cowered, confused and tired, until the last boom rang out, paired with a creak.

 _Of course,_ Harry thought as he recovered, _just the daily routine._ His cousin, Dudley, liked to descend the stairs as loudly as possible every morning. While it meant Harry didn’t require an alarm clock, being startled awake is never a good start to the day.

He looked around at the dismal cupboard where he slept; a tiny, dank storage room under the stairs. It was his only safe space beside being outside. To the Dursleys, Harry was a waste of space who didn't deserve his own room, so they stuck him under the stairs. He didn’t mind for the most part, at least they were all too fat to get through the small door. Harry rubbed his tired eyes. Oh, how he wished he was still asleep.

Harry loved dreaming and sleeping; in his opinion, it was a fantastic way to pass time. It meant that he didn’t have to listen to the Dursleys; he didn’t have to do chores or cook or fear beatings. It was bliss - a perfectly quiet and peaceful escape to the clouds. It didn’t take long for Harry to discover that he preferred unconsciousness to what awaited him in his waking hours, such as being Dudley’s punching bag or Petunia’s little housekeeper.

For this reason, Harry frequently attempted to pass the day by napping. Dudley, however, found it extremely amusing to jump up and down above his little cupboard while he was in it, so these attempts would often leave him curled in a ball on his bed staring at the damp, yellowing walls that enclosed him as dust rained down on him from above.

Harry grabbed his glasses and, wiping the dusty lenses with his filthy shirt, got out of bed. He stretched and yawned, savoring the feeling as blood poured into his muscles and dusty air filled his lungs. He didn’t bother changing, the few other articles of clothing he possessed were just as unclean if not more so, because his aunt only did his laundry once a month.

For Harry, the most difficult part of every day was mentally preparing himself for it. He tried not to think about the chores or the hours of unjustified treatment he would receive and instead forced himself to leave his little cabinet.

It would be worse if he didn’t, Harry recalled vividly, remembering one morning when made the mistake of ignoring his uncle. Vernon, after nearly an hour of yelling, had opened the door, unceremoniously threw a cereal box and water bottle through the opening, and then locked the door for an entire week.

Harry had no desire of being locked up again, so he stood up, and with a deep breath, opened the door and hurried to the kitchen to begin making breakfast. As Harry entered, his uncle glared at him over his newspaper.

“It’s about time, you little runt!” he snarled. “We’re starving over here, so get cooking.” Harry wondered how his Uncle could possibly claim that he was starving after eating three burgers for dinner the night before. _If he was on my diet,_ Harry thought morbidly, _he wouldn’t last a single day._

Vernon took an angry sip of coffee and slammed it back onto the table, spattering the table with its contents. “Clean this up.” he finished, gesturing towards the table. Vernon shifted his gaze back to his newspaper but continued to grumble mild insults under his breath, his mustache bristling with anger. Harry didn’t try to understand why his presence invoked such viscerally negative responses in his family, he just accepted it.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry responded lazily. Over time he had learned to keep his temper in check: no matter how much he hated or disagreed with his uncle, and no matter the injustice, disrespect and defiance would only end in a belting. Pain is an effective teacher (albeit cruel), and his family took advantage of it quite often.

Harry carefully finished making breakfast for his three relatives: three sunny eggs and bacon for Vernon, a large bowl of sugary cereal for Dudley, and a small salad for Petunia. After delivering their dishes, Harry returned eagerly to the kitchen. He was famished and wanted to make himself something before the hours of chores that laid ahead of him. Unfortunately for Harry, his aunt was a bloodhound of happiness. She could smell and eliminate even the smallest bit of joy with unbelievable haste and ease. When she turned to him with a familiar expression of sour disgust, Harry’s hopes for a meal disappeared.

“Now where do you think you’re going, you ungrateful little arse?” She scathed. “How many times do I have to bloody tell you? _Garden – before – food!”_ She punctuated every word by pelting him with a cherry tomato. The garden, which Petunia liked to claim as hers, was massive. It was late July, so it was full to the brim with veggies that needed harvesting and flowers that needed pruning.

Suppressing a groan, he replied his obligatory, “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” before hastily scooping up the tiny fruits that lay at his feet and moving to the backyard.

~~~~H~P~~~~

The hours dragged by, and Harry continued to clip, cut, and dig his way down the rows of plants. Dirt was caked on his clothes and under his fingernails.

It was late noon when he finally set down his garden spade and laid back on the grass, feeling the soreness leave his body as he stretched. His stomach, which he had been constantly subduing with promises of lunch, growled at him, and the sun blazed above him in the middle of the clear sky. It was a beautiful day; he could hear birds chirping in the neighboring trees and wind rustling in the leaves. The weather, it seemed, was finally taking pity on him: he would no longer be contained within the cursed walls of #4, Privet Drive.

Perhaps he would visit Mrs. Figg today, who was always kind to him. She sometimes even seemed to _enjoy_ his company, even if she looked upon him with sad eyes. Harry figured it was part of being an old woman, stuck living alone with her cats. _Such strange cats,_ he thought. They were friendly, yes... but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they could understand him.

Harry found his thoughts wandering to his parents, whom he knew nothing about. He didn’t know what they looked like, what they did, their names… only that they died in a car crash, and he survived with a scar on his forehead.

It wasn’t his only scar, of course - the belt always left marks. The welts, cuts, and bruises were scattered like angry red fissures across his back, shoulders, and chest. He hardly ever deserved the beatings he received; they just seemed to be the cruel way that his family let out all of their frustration. Harry had even heard his aunt and uncle talking one night – apparently, their marriage had been repaired by the new method of stress relief.

This is why, in a strange, horrible way, they enjoyed Harry’s presence. Telling him otherwise was simply another way for them to shit on his emotional wellbeing – hence restoring their own. Harry was sure that if they truly hated him being there, they would have gotten rid of him. Why wouldn’t they?

He dismissed the subject, and with a final stretch and yawn, Harry stood up, excited for lunch. He made his way inside and had just started preparing some food for himself when the Dursley Joy Bloodhound smelled excitement once again. She practically bounded into the room eyes glowing with rage as she gazed at him.

“MUDDY LITTLE ARSEHOLE!!” she cried. Harry froze, looking down in horror at filthy pants and shoes. A path of his footprints stretched away from him toward the back door. _How could I have forgotten?_ He asked himself incredulously. Aunt Petunia’s fiery stare traced the path from the door to Harry’s shoes and up his filthy pants, finally coming to rest directly on Harry’s eyes.

Harry could hear his heart beating as he stared in terror at the woman in front of him. He was frozen with fear: he knew what was coming, and the scariest part was that it hadn’t happened yet. To his confusion, Petunia dropped her gaze, turned around, and left the room. Harry didn’t move, but instead stared dumbly at the opening, trying to process what had just happened. Had he gotten away with it?

But Harry’s confusion was short-lived, she quickly returned with a look of pure hatred on her face, wielding Vernon’s walking stick like a sword. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth before she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the backyard, throwing him to the ground in the mud.

 _“You want to be a pig, do you?”_ The walking stick cracked against his back with terrible force. _“You want to roll around in the mud, and drag it back into the house for me to clean up?”_ Two more loud cracks drew tears from Harry’s eyes as he thrashed around in the mud, trying to protect himself with his arms. He had learned to expect the belt, which stung but never went deeper than the skin. The walking stick was different… It was harder, more unforgiving, and it had a nasty little metal piece on the end.

 _“So ungrateful,”_ came her wicked voice, lashing against his mind in rhythm with the stick against his back. Harry tried crawling away as the stick once again split across his shoulders. _“We take you in after your freaks of parents got themselves killed, we feed you and clothe you and shelter you with the warmth of our hearts, and this is what you do?”_

Petunia, apparently overcome with rage at her last statement, released an endless barrage of smacks against Harry, causing him to scream in pain. He clawed at the ground, trying to get away and pleading to his aunt to stop.

The pain was overwhelming; not even his Uncle had beaten him this badly. Harry tried to call for help, but only a strangled hiss escaped his throat. His back was wet with blood; he could feel it seeping into his shirt and down his sides. Harry curled into a ball and cowered, waiting for it to end as he sobbed to himself.

Suddenly, Petunia released a high-pitched screech. She hastily dropped the stick and raced to the house.

Harry slowly opened his eyes and looked around him finding that he was surrounded by small brown grass snakes. They were making no movements, save breathing; they were just staring at Harry as he slowly rose to his feet. He eyed them curiously – he felt no fear – in fact, he felt the strange obligation to thank them.

The strange distraction had dulled the pain momentarily, but it was now returning in full force. Harry knew he needed help, and there was only one place he would find it.

~~~~H~P~~~~  
  


Harry arrived, gasping and stumbling, on the doorstep of #9, Wisteria Walk. Tears were still streaming from his eyes. He still didn’t understand why she had beaten him so badly this time.

He needed help now - he hoped to the heavens that Mrs. Figg was home. His arm felt impossibly heavy as he lifted his fist to the door.

Two knocks were all that his remaining strength allowed before his arm dropped back to his side. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes tight, trying to block out the pain as he heard Mrs. Figg’s steps growing closer. With a hollow clank, the door opened before him.

“Harry! Thank goodness you’re alright! One more minute and I would’ve come and got you myself.” She gestured for him to come inside. “Please, dear, we have to get you cleaned up.”

Harry followed her inside, thinking to himself. The house was just as it had always been: floral pattern furniture, lots of cats, and a strange cabbage-like smell. He was – for good reason – very confused. “You knew I was coming?” He inquired in a broken voice.

“Well, I was very much hoping so. I didn’t need the cats to tell me you were in trouble, I reckon the entire neighborhood knows.”

“Your _cats?_ ”

She ignored the question. “All in good time, dear, we really need to get you cleaned up.” She hurried up the stairs, and Harry heard the water heater kick on.

Before following her up the stairs, Harry noticed several pairs of glowing eyes staring at him from around the living room. What had Mrs. Figg said? _They told her something?_ Shooting pain across his shoulders distracted him, causing his breath to come in short, rasping gulps. He dragged his heavy legs up the stairs.

The bathroom was the only open door, resting at the far end of the upstairs hall. The walls were adorned with photos of peculiar men and women wearing oversized robes and holding what appeared to be thin sticks. He barely noticed them.

Making his way down the hall, he found Mrs. Figg waiting for him in the bathroom filling the bath with warm water and soaps. She turned to him with concerned eyes, and patting the edge of the tub, said, “Alright, Harry, take a seat here and we’ll get that bloody shirt off.”

He quietly sat down, looking around him. The bathroom was perfectly ordinary save the strange-looking pouch that Mrs. Figg was extracting from a drawer beneath the sink. It was roughly the same size and shape as a first aid kit, but instead of being red with a white cross, it was black with a curious gold inlay of a steaming pot.

Harry and Mrs. Figg started meticulously removing his shirt, trying to be as slow as possible. Harry flinched and winced every time the fabric touched his skin, and he was straining to keep tears from falling as they finally lifted the shirt over his head. The fresh air on his open wounds invoked a wave of smarting pain, causing Harry to nearly pass out.

“Can you turn around for me, deary?” Mrs. Figg requested as she steadied him. “I need to see how bad it is.”

Harry slowly turned around, moving with careful precision as to not disturb his injuries. He had no idea what his back looked like, but he could feel how tense Mrs. Figg was behind him as she observed it. She silently evaluated the cuts and bruises for an entire minute before finding her voice again.

“Merlin’s beard, Harry,” she whispered incredulously. He turned; she was piercing him with knowing eyes. “Harry,” She continued softly, “Can you tell me what happened?” He faltered under her gaze, again turning away.

“I can’t tell you,” he responded in a shattered voice. If the Dursleys found out, they would never let him leave the house again. He would lose everything good about his life; it would just be chores and beatings and cooking and weeding…

“Harry,” she implored. “You can trust me. I’ve never lied to you. I’m asking because I want you to stay safe, and we can’t have this happen again. It’s serious.”

“I can’t, they’ll lock me up again!”

“Who will?”

“Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon! If I told anyone and they found out…” His voice broke. “Please, Mrs. Figg, _please_ don’t tell them I came here.” More tears leaked from his eyes, but no longer from pain.

“Don’t worry, Harry, I won’t. I need you to drink this medicine, it will help with the pain.” she reached into the black bag, pulling out a small vial of blood-red liquid. “I’m going to put something on your cuts as well, it’s called Essence of Dittany. It’ll sting at first, but I’m sure it’s nothing worse than what you’re already feeling.”

Harry gulped down the foreign remedy, puckering his lips unpleasantly; it tasted like vaguely metallic cough syrup. The poor flavor was made up for with a numbing sensation covering his back. Mrs. Figg began applying the Dittany, which made a low sizzling sound as it sealed his wounds.

Several minutes passed in silence as Mrs. Figg made her way through all his cuts and gashes. When she finally seemed satisfied, she announced, “I didn’t fancy showing the open wounds, but I reckon you can look at it now.” Harry rose, making his way over to the sink. He slowly turned his body around, keeping his head tilted so he could see the mirror.

A rainbow of bruises was displayed dramatically across his shoulder blades, and angry red gashes stood out vividly against his pale skin like craters and canyons. His back resembled a battlefield as much as it represented one: his battle of injustice against his forced family. He reached around, running his hands over the rough skin. He knew in his heart that the scars would never leave. They went deeper than his skin, to his very soul, as did the hatred that put them there. No seven-year-old should have battle scars.

He stared for a long time, his thoughts wandering to the Dursleys. _Why did they hate him so goddamn much?_ Harry thought it similar to a school bully. If you start going to school with a bully, and they always treat you like shit, you just assume that they are always like that. You never question why.

Harry’s entire life fit into that metaphor. Harry never had a loving family, at least that he can remember. He was raised by people who treated him like dirt, _less than dirt,_ so he had never thought it strange. Now Harry realized that it didn’t make sense… he was more well-behaved than Dudley, he did more chores than the entire family combined, and yet he was still an outcast. _They still hate me._

Harry tried as hard as he could to think of a single person that loved him. His parents were his first thought, but they couldn’t exactly love anymore. His second thought was Mrs. Figg, who he thought he knew well, but remembering the pictures in the hallway, Harry realized he didn’t know her at all. The Dursleys did not once enter his mind during these notions, and Harry finally concluded that there wasn’t anyone. Not a single person loved him. _He was alone._

 _So why am I here? Why do I get up every day?_ He couldn’t answer his own simple questions. There was simply no reason – every waking hour was just serving his family that despised him. Harry was so emotionally deprived of happiness that the smallest things could excite him: a pretty flower, an extra bite of food, an extra ten minutes of sleep. He now realized, however, that he was not feeling joy, he was feeling _relief_.

A cruel, twisted relief it was – making him feel better about his horrible situation when nothing had changed for the better. His own mind was tricking him into thinking that he was okay when nothing actually was. Harry had to face the truth: that he wasn’t special, he wasn’t loved, and he wasn’t welcome.

When he finally turned his gaze on Mrs. Figg, tears threatened to fall from his eyes. Why had he bothered this poor woman with his problems? She didn’t want him here. He was wasting her time. He responded in a voice like glass shards.

“Th-thanks, Mrs. Figg. I really think I sh-should be getting back now...”

“Don’t be daft, Harry,” she looked at him sympathetically. “They’ll still be in a foul mood if you go back now, I think it best if you stay here for a bit.” The sympathy was clouded by analysis before the fog cleared into resolve. “Let’s go downstairs, you can get comfortable on the couch until it gets dark.”

“I really don’t want to bother you, Mrs. Figg- “

“Nonsense, boy. I enjoy your company.”

Harry, feeling that familiar joy that he loathed so dearly, consented. Mrs. Figg collected a shirt for him from her bedroom, “One of my husband’s”, as she reported. Harry remembered seeing a man in some of the portraits; he had a warm, friendly smile and eyes filled with content. He sadly wondered what had happened.

The shirt was much too big for him, but it covered all his scars (save the one) and was the same size as the clothes he got from Dudley anyway. He soon found himself, not for the first time, wrapped up in a blanket adjacent to Mrs. Figg on her couch. She folded her hands in her lap and turned to him, a slight smile on her face.

“I’m sure you’d rather watch the tele than listen to an old woman’s ramblings but hear me out. I think you’ll find this quite interesting, anyway.” Harry had not expected this, so he gave her his full attention. Her expression turned serious. “You remember what I said earlier, right? About how you can trust me.”

He looked at her quizzically before responding, “Yes, ma’am.”

“So, you promise to believe what I tell you, no matter how crazy it sounds?”

Harry was now quite intrigued, and the faux joy drove an eager confirmation through his lips.

“You must promise me one more thing, Harry.” She leaned forward toward him and whispered, “You mustn’t tell anyone what I tell you _, especially your aunt and uncle_.”

His intrigue was increased tenfold by this demand – his previous self-deprecatory thoughts were masked behind anticipation. “Yes, I promise!”

She looked at him silently for a time. “Do you remember your parents?” she finally asked.

“No, they died in a car crash when I was a baby. That’s how I got this scar.” He gestured toward his forehead.

“Is that so?” The quizzical expression returned to his face, and he carefully chose his reply.

“That’s… what Aunt Petunia told me.”

“Interesting – yes, that would work, I suppose.” Harry had no idea what she was talking about. “I knew your parents, Harry, did you know that?”

Harry was flabbergasted. “What – no! _You knew them?_ H-how?”

“We worked together. For all too short a time, I should say. They deserved a long and peaceful life if anyone ever did.”

“You mean before the crash?”

“No car crash killed Lily and James. No, no, no, they were murdered.”

“ _What?_ Lily and Ja…? B-but – but who would _do_ that?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to understand some other things first.” She looked at him as if squaring him up, before continuing, “You’re a wizard, Harry.”

_“I’m a what?”_

“A wizard, and so were your parents.”

He took a deep breath. _Don’t get excited, Harry,_ he told himself. _Wizards are just fairy tales. She is pulling your leg. It’s part of the story. You aren’t special._

But part of him wished she was telling the truth, no matter how preposterous. It meant he was more than the Dursleys liked to tell him. He would no longer be the dregs at the bottom of their teacups; he’d be a _wizard._

He decided to divulge in the fantasy, even if it was just part of the tale: the very prospect of magic was exhilarating. She had never lied to him, after all.

“So, what, I can use magic? Like in the movies? And my parents could too?” Harry asked feverishly.

“Yes, and I’m quite sure you already have,” she replied knowingly, smiling at him. “Can you remember anything happening that you couldn’t explain, perhaps when you were angry or scared?”

“Er, no, I-” He paused. Come to think of it, some strange things had happened in the past when Dudley’s gang was chasing him. He remembered one specifically, just the year before. Dudley cornered him in the courtyard at school, and Harry had somehow found himself on the roof of the building he had been adjacent to. He looked curiously at Mrs. Figg. There were also the snakes earlier that day, and how they had nipped at Petunia’s ankles but just stared at Harry and did nothing. That didn’t mean it was magic, of course, perhaps those snakes are just weird. Mrs. Figg continued to gaze at him with a look of smug satisfaction.

“See? The same thing happened to my siblings when they were your age. They’d wake up different colored bedsheets or make random shit float when they were angry. Scared the hell out of us the first few times, but we got used to it fast.” The memory was apparently an amusing one, for she laughed out loud, the sudden noise making Harry flinch considerably. She quickly stopped laughing, a grave expression filling her features. She must’ve thought that the vulgarity alarmed him, because she continued in a calmer voice.

“Sorry about the language, Harry, but if I’m not mistaken, my ‘sentence enhancers’ are quite tame in contrast to your Aunt and Uncle.”

Harry chose not to address this; he had practically told Mrs. Figg about the beating already. He didn’t want to dig a deeper hole for himself, because he had to return to the Dursleys eventually. _Or do I?_ He began to think. _Can’t I just use magic to get away?_

“You know magic, right? Can’t I just live with you?” Harry blurted.

“Unfortunately, no,” she said with another sympathetic look. “I actually can’t use magic. I’m a squib, which means I had magical parents, but I can’t use it - that’s not what’s important though. The Dursley’s house is your home. It provides more protection than just walls if I’m understanding Dumbledore correctly.”

“Dumbledore?”

“Yes, Dumbledore is probably the most well-known wizard of the century, after You-Know-Who - or rather, You-Don’t-Know-Who, because I haven’t gotten there yet.” She smiled at her own joke. “Anyway, he is the headmaster of Hogwarts, which is where you will be going to school in a few years.”

“I’ll be going to a magical school?” He asked incredulously, practically vibrating with happiness.

“Indeed, you will, with hundreds of other witches and wizards like yourself.”

Harry was ecstatic, for he had just realized the most exciting factor, “And I get to leave the Dursleys?”

“Yes… yes you do,” she said with a small frown. “Now, Harry, please suppress your further questions, I’m sure many will be answered as I explain. Let your parents’ fate not be lost in the excitement of magic’s wonders.” She finished dramatically with a faux flourish of her hands. She got up and walked to the kitchen to fetch tea, speaking as she went. “Just like Muggles, who are completely non-magical folk, wizard kind has its own conflicts.

“To start, you need to know about the aforementioned ‘You-Don’t-Know-Who. A decade ago, a very powerful wizard rose from the shadows. His name was Voldemort.” She shivered. “Dumbledore says, ‘fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself’, but I still don’t like to say the name, and most others agree. We instead call him You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” She returned to the couch, placing a tea tray on the low table and pouring a cup for each of them.

“He is the one who murdered your parents. I will spare you the details,” -She waved her hand dismissively- “but when he tried to kill _you_ , he was defeated somehow. Nobody knows how, I suspect Dumbledore doesn’t even know. The Dark Lord disappeared, and you were left parentless with the scar on your forehead.” As he tried in vain to process the barrage of new information, Harry’s mind provided a single query: _Why did he try to kill me?_ He was just a baby after all.

“Dumbledore, who oversaw your protection after your parents’ death, did not want any of this information divulged to you. I fancy calling myself a rather clever old woman, Harry, but I am not nearly as wise as Dumbledore, therefore it was very hard for me to disobey his direct orders.

“Harry,” she looked at him with pleading eyes. “Please forgive me. I haven’t protected you well enough. I want to make up for it, and the only way I can think of is by preparing you for your future as much as I can.

“You are no normal wizard, Harry. Your collective fate with the Dark Lord was sealed from birth. You, my boy, are prophesied.”

The tea lay cold and forgotten.

~~~~H~P~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading.  
> Any comments/suggestions are encouraged.  
> Much love <3


	3. Digonelley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets his letter and school supplies.

**~~~~Chapter 3~~~~**

The summer sun broke the horizon, scattering bright beams of light across the rainy sky of Little Whinging, and the drumming of falling droplets filled the air of the deserted park. 

Harry quietly watched the fractured sunlight from his solitary swing. He swayed gently back and forth, feeling the cool breeze on his face. The rain was cold, but he didn’t feel it – it just rolled off him as it always had. 

He had realized, after a time, that hiding from consciousness was counterintuitive. His problems would only grow worse while he blissfully ignored them. Harry liked to think of it like this: If he turned his gaze away from the big black dog, it would only inch closer. Not the best analogy, perhaps, but it seemed strangely fitting. 

There were aspects of sleep that still greatly appealed to Harry, such as the darkness and silence, which both suggest loneliness in turn. Harry thought at first that he preferred loneliness because his alternative was the Dursleys. Mrs. Figg had, over time, shown Harry that silence could not only be shared but was better when it was. 

So here Harry was, awake before dawn, enjoying the mellow sunrise. Mrs. Figg hadn’t joined him today; she was quite a bit longer toothed than he, and she needed her sleep. He wasn’t alone, though. Crookshanks was by his side as he always was. _He must be the only cat in the world who_ _didn’t_ _mind getting wet_ , Harry thought fondly. 

He wasn’t worried about the Dursleys; they no longer cared about what he did in his free time. If there was hot breakfast and a tended garden waiting for them each morning, they would just ignore his existence. To them, he was a kind of servant; best left doing his work unseen and forgotten. 

This was largely due to his half-kneazle companion, who had the fantastical power to indirectly protect Harry from harm if he was nearby. The clever tabby would curl up in Harry’s cupboard when Harry was in the house, and find his way out, undetected, if Harry had other ventures. This ultimately caused his physical beatings to cease – but not forgotten were his scars from the seven years prior. 

The absence of physical punishment – and Harry entirely, for that matter – lead to the Dursleys' complete and total negligence of him. They stopped preparing his meals, they stopped taking him to school and the doctor, and they stopped doing his laundry (which was minimal). He learned quickly how to take care of himself and had help from Mrs. Figg whenever he needed it. 

Any regretful feelings were always muted by one specific memory, though, from before he was old enough to understand more complex feelings. He had spent a whole hour on a drawing that he was quite proud of; two blond-haired blobs beside a dark-haired blob, with a fourth, smaller dark-haired blob set apart from the rest. Scrawled across the top was ‘ _my family’_ in Harry’s early handwriting. When he presented the drawing to his uncle, it was torn apart and thrown into the fire in front of him. 

The recollection still brought a feeling of true sadness to Harry – at one point, he had actually believed that these disgusting people were his _family_. 

A family doesn’t treat each other like that. Families love and support each other, they care for each other, they _hug_ each other. Harry remembered his first hug: given by Mrs. Figg as he had tried in vain to process his cursed diagnosis. He never knew how much he needed it until it happened. 

It was four years ago, to the day, a day he would never forget. His seventh birthday. He knew that the emotional and physical scars of that day would never leave his body, and that was just as well. They reminded him to revisit his planned fate, to remember his prophesied future, and to chip away halfheartedly at the shock that remained, to try in vain to fully understand and believe it. 

Simple math, which he had learned from Mrs. Figg, says that seven plus four equals eleven, and here it was. He was eleven years old. Harry wondered how he could feel both younger and older than his true age at the same time... on one hand, he was but a fraction into his life. He still had so much time left, even if his prophecy turned dark on him, but on the other hand, it was all too short a time. He was already growing weary. 

That blessed Arabella was Harry’s guardian angel through the last few years. She made sure that he, above all else, understood the importance of his task and was prepared for it. Reminders of wizarding dangers were regular but not overwhelming – she wanted him to be paranoid and overcareful, but not let it control his mind. She wasn’t light with her training, but she was gentle. 

The first thing she did was give Harry a wand; a non-functional one previously belonging to the late _Mr._ Figg; capped with goblin silver to stop spells. She wanted him practiced in hexes, cursed, charms – anything he could learn from the countless spellbooks she owned. Because of the capped wand (the ministry restricted underage magic), he couldn’t actually cast what he was practicing. The books were perfect for such applications; they described pronunciation, movement, and theory. The only thing missing was the casting itself, the absence of which did not affect Harry in any way besides an uncomfortable tension in his wand arm. 

Harry extensively read about practical spells, useful charms, combat-oriented hexes, and curses, repeating the movements and incantations until they were ingrained in his mind, becoming near instinctual. After enough practice, he could make the tip of the wand glow with the potential of the jailed spell inside. The wand became an extension of his body; when he wasn’t practicing with it, he was twirling it absentmindedly between his fingers like a windmill. 

Mrs. Figg helped Harry get on a better diet than he had been able to supply himself. He started to fill out more. After a few months, his ribs were much less visible, and his hands weren’t as cold. He also started exercising in the dark early mornings, it made him feel much better overall. The better diet sharpened his mind, which helped his Occlumency practice immensely (Mrs. Figg thought it a very important skill). 

The dramatic change between the starving, weak Harry and the stronger, well-fed Harry infuriated him. He remembered all the leftover meals that the Dursleys had thrown away, looking him straight in the eye, as if daring him to object. All the years of being stuck in that damned cupboard, curled up like he was in a constant PTSD attack. It was their fault entirely. Oh, how Harry wished he could watch _them_ starve. 

Several times he and Mrs. Figg had also tried to brew simple potions because neither of them had done it before. According to her, he had gained his mother’s knack for potions, while she had gained the potion skills of a tortoise. Harry dismissed the statement laughingly but secretly agreed with her, especially after the desecrated cat corpse fiasco. 

Harry fancies “cat” over “half-kneazle hybrid”, which is what they happened to be. He learned this when he finally asked Mrs. Figg what she did for a living, to which ‘kneazle cross-breeding’ was her casual answer; “A roaring trade,” she had said. 

While he was lost amidst thought and memory, it had stopped raining. The sun was fully risen and glowing magnificently on the horizon. Harry shook his head lazily. The mail would be arriving shortly – it was not a good day to miss it. He rose from the swing, twirling the wand distractedly between his fingers, and set off toward #4, Privet Drive.   


~~~~H~P~~~~ 

Harry arrived at the dismal residence just in time to catch the mailman, an irritable and grubby old bloke who smelled strongly of tobacco and alcohol. Despite the mailman’s grumpy moods... he was oddly kind to Harry, at least in radical contrast to the Dursleys and their neighbors. 

“‘Ello, ‘Arry,” he greeted in a tired and hoarse voice. “Fine morning, innit?” 

“Yes sir, I suppose it is,” Harry replied, glancing around at the glistening, wet grass. 

“I’ll get yer letters, then,” he yawned. He started ruffling around in his bag, muttering quiet complaints about his job as he always did. “Wake up at bleedin’ 5 am, ooh, I’d fancy a cuppa right about now... let’s see here… Dursleys… ah, ‘ere yeh are,” he extracted a small collection of letters. He handled them with a strange caution compared to his normal indifference. 

The mailman carefully handed Harry the letters, seeming oddly distrait. “Well, I best be movin’ on,” he said, turning around. “Enjoy the sunshine, you hear?” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied. He lowered his gaze from the retreating mailman, raking his eyes across the letters he held. A thick brown letter lay neatly on the pile of letters in Harry’s arms. 

**_Mr. H. Potter, Front Yard, #4 Privet Drive, Little_ ** **_Whinging_** ** _, Surrey_ **

His excitement was clouded by instinctual caution and disbelief. _Front Yard??_ He spun around, eyes panning the road and nearby yards for anybody lurking unseen. He found nobody except a grand-looking owl sitting on the gutter. How strange, he thought, he barely ever saw owls here – _aren’t they nocturnal?_ He eyed the bird suspiciously. 

He flipped over the letter to reveal a violently red wax seal. The seal was stamped with a curly letter _H,_ and a multicolored coat of arms was stamped above it. It had four sections – red with a lion, green with a snake, blue with an eagle, and yellow with a badger. A ribbon of text underneath read: _Draco_ _Dormiens_ _Nunquam_ _Titillandus_ _._

It was exactly as Mrs. Figg had described it would be. His anticipation was unbearable as he eagerly (but carefully) broke the seal and withdrew the contents. The first paper looked very official and was again topped in the coat of arms. 

  


**HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**Headmaster** **: Albus Dumbledore** (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards) 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st. 

**_Yours Sincerely,_ ** **_Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress_ **

  


_Await my owl?_ Was Harry’s first thought. He noticed that the owl was now sitting patiently upon the fencepost. Mrs. Figg had never told him that wizards communicate with _owls_. She _had_ said that magical folk could _teleport_ , so why were they using letters? The Muggle telephone would probably be faster. 

Harry supposed it was his own fault that he didn’t know... he was the one ignoring the books on magical creatures almost entirely. As for Mrs. Figg – she wasn’t a witch, and Harry had never seen her send a letter, so the topic never arose. 

He had finally decrypted the masterfully coded term, “await my owl”, so he moved on to the latter half. His eyes grazed the words _July 31st,_ and his brain froze _. Surely,_ Harry thought incredulously, _they_ _don’t_ _mean today._

“Do – do I send _you_?” He asked the owl. As Harry expected, the owl did not respond. It instead chose to ruffle its feathers importantly, spattering Harry with water droplets. 

Deciding to ignore the owl and check the rest of the letter’s contents, Harry found the supply list: 

**_-Uniform-_ **   
**_-_ ** _Three Sets of Work Robes (Black)_   
_-One Plain Pointed Hat (Black) for day wear_   
_-One Pair of Protective Gloves (Dragon Hide or similar)_   
_-One Winter Cloak (Black, w/ silver fastenings)_   
_~Please note that all pupil’s clothes should carry name tags~_

**_-Other Equipment-_ **   
**_-_ ** _One Wand_   
_-One Cauldron (Pewter, standard size 2)_   
_-One set of Glass or Crystal Phials_   
_-One Telescope_   
_-One set Brass Scales_

**_-Course Books-_ **   
**_~All students should have a copy of each of the following~_ **   
**_-_ ** _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk_   
_-A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_   
_-Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_   
_-A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_   
_-One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_   
_-Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_   
_-Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_   
_-The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble_

_~Students may also bring an_ _owl OR a cat_ _OR a toad~_

**_-Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks-_ **

Harry stared at the paper. He had expected a strange list, but he had no idea how he would get _anything_ on it. Mrs. Figg had told him about a magic sort of shopping center – _Digonelley_ if he remembered correctly – but he didn’t know how to get there. 

The last thing he dug out of the envelope was a small golden slip of paper with _Platform 9¾_ written in large curly letter across the front. Confused, he studied the slip of paper, searching for any directions, which he finally found as he flipped it over. Handwritten on the back in stunningly perfect cursive were the words: _Walk through the barrier._ _Don’t_ _hesitate._ _Don’t_ _be afraid._

The owl, apparently growing impatient, hooted rather loudly, making Harry jump. 

“I haven’t got any paper!” he apologized. “Mrs. Figg will have some, just follow me over there, yeah?” The owl stared at him with large, round eyes. He started walking towards Wysteria Walk, and the owl flew lightly onto his shoulder. He hoped to Merlin that the Dursleys wouldn’t see. 

~~~~H~P~~~~ 

He entered #9, Wisteria Walk without knocking, wand twirling idly in one hand and mail resting in the other. They trusted each other; Mrs. Figg was the closest thing to a mother he had. It was hard to think otherwise when she treated him like family, as her _son;_ a desperate connection between two lonely souls. 

The possibility that Mrs. Figg was lonely had never crossed his mind in the past – just that she was _alone,_ like all the other old widows. When she began to open to him, he realized that she craved company and missed her husband. After several years, she told him of her miscarriage and how she still grieved and blamed herself for it constantly. He tried to comfort her but knew he couldn’t fill the void that her earlier losses had left, just as she couldn’t fill his. 

“Mrs. Figg?” he said loudly. 

“Harry? Is that you?” came her distant reply. She appeared at the top of the stairs with a grin, and started rushing down the stairs – “Oh, you got your letter! How wonderful!” – but was disrupted by an unfortunately placed half-kneazle. 

It happened in a split second: Mrs. Figg falling through the air, Harry’s eyes opening wide, and his wand hand twirling away from him. A deep rumbling – air rippling toward the old woman – a high-pitched scream – a green flash – the wand exploded in Harry’s hand. 

Harry dropped the burning stick as he recoiled. Mrs. Figg lay frozen in the air – mere inches from the ground. Harry stared in awe, his breath catching as he cradled his burnt hand. 

_What just happened?_ Was all he could think. 

The tension in his wand arm was gone, but his right hand was badly burnt and scarring. The spell had apparently cast, but the wand lay smoldering on the ground... 

He looked at Mrs. Figg. “I... I-I'm sorry ab-bout the wand, Mrs. F-Figg...” he said in a broken voice. It was her husband’s, and he had just destroyed it. 

She sat up against the wall, “It’s just a stick, boy,” she said with a bemused smile. “How – how did it get through the cap?” 

“I’ve no clue,” Harry said, bending down and picking up the wand. 

“Maybe it was Mateo,” she said, gazing hopefully at the wand. “He’s always protected me, even in passing.” She gestured vaguely at the half-kneazles. “Then again, maybe it was just you.” 

Harry didn’t know what to think. He knew that he cast it; the tension in his arm was gone. Why did the wand break? Had the spells been building up? Was it too much for it to handle? Or was it Mateo’s last favor to his wife that he never got to say goodbye to? 

As both slowly recovered from the shock and confusion of the event, the topic of Harry’s letter was nearly forgotten; Harry was distracted by his burnt hand and the unpleasant experience of his first casting. It wasn’t until Harry was leaving that Mrs. Figg brought it up, promising him a visit to “Diagon Alley” the next day. 

As Harry walked home, he was once again torn between whether his birthday had been good or bad. 

~~~~H~P~~~~ 

Harry awoke early on August 1st. Another atypical birthday had passed, and today he was getting his fourth birthday present ever: a day in the magical world. He didn’t know whether to be excited or not. 

Harry dressed fast and sped through his chores even faster. He checked to make sure the Dursleys were asleep, and then sneaked into their room, carefully grabbing a hair from Aunt Petunia’s pillow and set of clothes from her closet by Mrs. Figg’s request. He then slunk down the street, sticking to the shadows, until he reached Wisteria Walk. 

“Hello, Harry,” she said as he entered. “Did you get the clothes and hair I asked for?” 

“…Yes,” he said slowly. “What’s it for?” 

“Polyjuice potion.” 

“You’re gonna be my aunt?” 

“Yes. We both know that your aunt is far too normal to handle magic, she’d probably shit her pants in Diagon alley, but nobody else knows that. If – no, _when_ you are recognized, I think it better if an actual family member is with you. Especially if someone from the Order is there.” 

“Oh yeah, right.” 

Mrs. Figg stepped into the bathroom. After a series of unpleasant noises, she emerged – no, his Aunt Petunia emerged – into the living room. 

“Being a squib is better than being a Muggle in a few ways, Harry, and floo powder is one of them. I’m sure you’ve read about it,” she said as she fastened her handbag. “As a squib, I am still magic-aware, so the ministry has me connected to the floo network. They do the same thing for muggle-born parents, as well.” She still had Mrs. Figg’s voice, but it was quite unsettling to see the relaxed form of Aunt Petunia talking so nonchalantly. She leaned down and grabbed Harry’s shoulders, putting his aunt’s face uncomfortably close to his. 

“You need to be careful in Diagon Alley. Even though the Dark Lord is gone, many of his zealots were able to escape, and still walk among us. The most dangerous kind is also the hardest to detect, and therefore the least known; the Order calls them Swipers. They are extremely intelligent Warlocks working for the dark side and are highly practiced in Legilimency. They caused a ton of problems for the Order during the War, but most people blamed it on the Imperius curse, which Dumbledore says is much harder to cast than it’s made out to be. 

“I want you to have your Occlumency active the entire time we are there, and tell me if you feel anything, okay? These guys are still loyal, and that makes them even more dangerous.” 

“I understand, I’ll be careful.” Harry was surprised at the sudden warning, although he figured he shouldn’t have been. She had told him of how extensive Voldemort’s influence was, even after his vanishing. Still, the idea that his agents could be lurking in Diagon Alley waiting for him was nerve-wracking. 

“Right then, onto the Floo. It’s quite a lot simpler than most wizards think: all you have to do is step into the green flames, say ‘Diagon Alley’ as clearly as possible, and close your eyes. If you say it clearly, it will always deliver you to the right place.” Harry eyed the fireplace uncertainly, which was cold and desolate. 

Mrs. Figg grabbed a pinch of silvery powder from a tin on the mantelpiece labeled “Floo Powder” and tossed it into the fire. The heat dissipated and the flames melded into a greenish-blue hue. 

“I’ll go first and wait just on the other side, okay? Watch how I do it.” 

Harry stood awkwardly, examining every movement she made. He really did not want to mess it up – both because of the embarrassment but also because of the unknown consequences of doing it incorrectly. Would he end up somewhere entirely different? Would he just disappear entirely? He focused all his attention on the old woman as she hobbled into the fireplace. 

Mrs. Figg grabbed another handful from the tin. The vivid flames licked at her clothes but left no marks. With a deep breath, she firmly announced, “Diagon Alley” and threw the powder down at her feet. With a roar, the flames climbed above the batty old woman and when they lowered, she was gone. Harry stared wide-eyed at the now-empty mantel; any shred of doubt disappearing as Mrs. Figg had. 

The green flames returned to their low burn, barely higher than Harry’s ankles. He stepped into the rectangular fireplace, grabbing the Floo powder. It was peculiar, the flames were barely warm. 

He took a deep breath as Mrs. Figg had and said in a clear, confident voice (although it didn’t reflect how he felt), “Diagon Alley”. Clenching his eyes shut, he threw down the powder at his feet and the inferno surrounded him like a warm blanket. 

He felt like he was falling and spinning; it was nauseating. Resisting his body’s urge to panic, he remained physically calm and waited to reach Diagon Alley. After a few seconds, the uncomfortable sensations stopped, and Harry opened his eyes. 

He stepped out of a large grate onto a cobblestone street. Petunia appeared at his side with a large smile, making Harry’s heart spasm before he remembered her identity. She reminded him to use his Occlumency. 

_Right,_ he thought. Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind. _Learning_ Occlumency was the hardest part of it – he had thought the sleepless nights would never end as he lay trying to control his emotions. Once he figured it out, however, it was easy to put into practice. The familiar pressure of the Occlumency slid into place in his mind like a shield. 

Opening his eyes, he looked around him. The narrow alley was filled with people of all ages: children getting school supplies, their parents keeping watch, and old shopkeepers displaying their products. The people themselves were dressed in a large assortment of robes and cloaks, many of which were topped with a tall, pointy hat. His school outfit seemed much less extraordinary at the sight. Some others, whom Harry guessed had arrived by means other than Floo, were dressed in poor imitations of Muggle outfits. A man in Curious George pajamas walking past said, “Nice costumes,” to them. 

They set off down the street. Harry could barely keep up with the conglomerate of things happening around him: magical creatures hissing from cages, an orgy of unidentifiable smells, colorful signs for colorful shops filled with colorfully people buying colorful products and using equally colorful language. His head was spinning, it was quite overwhelming… there were so many people. Harry had never felt claustrophobic before – he had gotten well used to small spaces – but he was starting to feel it now. The only familiar thing in sight was the form of Aunt Petunia in front of him, which was not at all comforting and did nothing to suppress the feeling that he was being watched… that someone was lurking in a side alley waiting for him… 

Harry felt the occasional prod on his mind, but Harry was certain that they were just a placebo. They didn’t feel like the attack he anticipated Legilimency felt like. 

After much stress, Harry and Mrs. Figg reached the end of the alley unhurt (though Harry felt rather violated), where they stood before an ancient and magnificent marble structure. It put all the little shops to shame in terms of presentation – Harry had never seen such a grand building. _Gringotts_ was spelled in golden letters above the entryway. 

Harry recognized two goblins from his readings, flanking massive golden doors. Inlayed on those doors was the text that follows: 

**_Fortius_ ** **_Quo Fidelius_ **

**_Enter, stranger, but take_ ** **_heed_ **   
**_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_ **   
**_For those who take, but do not earn,_ **   
**_Must pay most dearly in their turn._ **   
**_So_ ** **_if you_ ** **_seek_ ** **_beneath our floors_ **   
**_A treasure that was never yours,_ **   
**_Thief, you have been warned,_ ** **_beware_ **   
**_Of finding more than treasure there._ **

Harry shivered. There seemed to be more words – he assumed they faded over the centuries – but the remaining message was clear: _Do not steal from goblins._ He made a mental note of it. 

They entered the entrance hall. The ceilings were far above their heads, and _very_ far above the goblins’ heads. Spectacular crystal chandeliers hung down from the top, stopping barely twenty feet above their head. Tall counters ran along the sides from the doors to the far end, and goblin tellers sat behind them. They headed toward the far end. 

The atmosphere was tense... Harry couldn’t place it, but he knew it wasn’t normal. All the goblins looked uncomfortable and disgusted. 

They stepped up to the counter. The goblin towered above them; hands folded in front of him. The effect surprising: the goblin looked much more menacing and dangerous than he did from a distance. Harry wondered if it was just a trick of the light, but the goblin’s eyes seemed to be glowing malevolently. The goblin did not ask Harry’s name. 

“Welcome to Gringotts, Mr. Potter,” it croaked. “I was wondering when we would see you would return… your vault has been closed for so long.” 

It took Harry several seconds to find his voice as he tried desperately to remember what he had read about goblins. _What did the_ _damned_ _book say?_ There are few things that goblins value... treasure, victory, _and respect._

“Th-thank you v-very much, sir,” he stuttered. “The bank is… well, the books just don’t do it justice. It’s truly breathtaking to be here in person.” The goblin eyed him with a look of pleasant surprise. “If I may ask, how did you recognize me?” Harry asked. 

“This may be _your_ first visit, Mr. Potter, but it is not your family's. Many of your ancestors have stood right where you do, and I must say, the resemblance is uncanny.” He looked at Harry thoughtfully. “It appears your eyes aren’t the only thing you’ve gotten from your mother; I’ve never met a witch with more respect for my species.” Harry could think of no response, but instead stowed the new information about his mother deep in his mind. Silence fell for a short time. 

“I take it you would like to enter the Potter vault today?” the goblin asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Do you have the key to your vault?” Harry’s stomach dropped. _Of course_ _I_ _don’t_ _have the_ _damned_ _key, where would I even get it?_ The goblin seemed to know what Harry was thinking. 

“A signature should do fine in place of a vault key if you would be so kind.” He glanced over at Harry’s companion. “It will also tell if you are under the disguise of a poorly brewed Polyjuice potion, like Arabella here.” Harry twisted around and sure enough, Mrs. Figg stood before him, looking thoroughly embarrassed. His mouth dropped open in panic, but the goblin held up his hand to silence him. 

“I’d have you both killed for that if I wasn’t in such a good mood today,” he reached behind the counter, cackling maniacally, and withdrew a piece of parchment and quill. Harry felt his blood chill. “But I think I’ll wait until after the test. Pull the knob in front of you.” 

Harry did so, and a flat piece of wood extended from the counter, providing a flat space at a comfortable level for visitors to write on. The goblin handed Harry the paper and quill. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Figg take another swig of Polyjuice and grimace as she transformed back into his aunt’s form. 

“Sir? You haven’t given me any ink,” he said. 

“You shan’t need any, Mr. Potter. Sign your name on the line.” 

Harry bemusedly wrote his signature on the indicated line, which flashed gold, and felt a sharp pain on the back of his hand. The very same words he had written briefly showed up red against his skin. If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say that he had just used his own blood as ink. 

The drawer disappeared back into the counter, and the goblin retrieved the paper, examining it. 

“It appears we have one _Harry James Potter –_ lucky for you,” he said gravely. “I hope you can excuse the added caution, but yesterday we were nearly robbed of a very important artifact. First time in centuries, prevented only because Dumbledore emptied the vault earlier that day.” He seemed outraged at the prospect, that they were nearly robbed, and Harry understood why the atmosphere was so tense – they were _disgraced_. “I will take you to your vault, Mr. Potter, but I must ask that Mrs. Figg stays.” 

Harry followed the goblin through a door labeled “VAULT TRACK No. 6”. The goblin, which Harry identified as _Griphook_ by his newly visible nametag, beckoned him into a cart, and they sped off through tunnels that were roughly carved into the earth. Down, down, down they went, left, right, left, right. They seemed to turn every other second – any hope of knowing where they were was lost among the hundreds of alternate routes that were taken or passed. They passed over the top of an underground waterfall, through massive caves of crystal, and even over a pool of boiling magma. 

Finally, they arrived at vault 687. Griphook got out first, walked over to the vault, and stroked the door with a long, bony finger. The door shuddered before gradually unlocking itself. Griphook looked at Harry with dark amusement. 

“If anyone else tries that, the door will grab them and suck them through like a spaghetti noodle. They’ll be stuck in there until we do our routine vault cleanings.” 

“How often do you clean the vaults?” Harry asked in a shaky voice. 

“About every fifteen years,” Griphook said with the same unnerving cackle. Harry shivered. The caves were inky black around them. 

He watched in awe as the door melted away into the nearby walls, revealing towering mounds of gold, silver, and bronze coins. It was more money than Harry had ever seen in his life – more than even the Dursleys had. The goblin handed him a leather sack that he had grabbed from the cart. 

Harry scooped up gold and silver by the fistful, shoving it into the bag, which never seemed to grow heavier or get full. Even after putting an absurd amount of gold into the bag, there was no visible dent in the pile and the leather coin bag was no heavier. The money seemed infinite. 

“Alright, I think I’ve got enough,” said Harry. 

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” said Griphook “Back to the cart, if you will.” 

Off they went through the caves, taking what seemed to be an entirely different route, but there was really no way of knowing. Harry didn’t even think Griphook knew – the cart was steering itself. After another gut-wrenching cart ride, they arrived back at the start of vault track six. He exchanged brief pleasantries with Griphook before departing from the marble fortress. 

“Where first, Harry?” asked Mrs. Figg as they started down the street. Referencing his supply list, they gradually made their way through the items. 

-They visited Potage’s cauldron shop. For a split second, his eyes darted between his money bag and a solid gold cauldron, but he didn’t think it would leave a good impression at school.   
-They visited Mr. Mulpepper’s apothecary, where Harry bought a year one potions kit, containing but a small fraction of what the shop offered. He awed at vials of dragon’s blood, unicorn hairs and horns, and hippogriff talons (whatever those were). Solid gold caught his eye again: this time a mortar and pestle that weighed almost as much as his cauldron. He once again resisted.   
-They visited Flourish and Blotts, where Mrs. Figg had a lifetime discount and bought the few books that Harry couldn’t borrow from her.   
-And they visited Madam Malkin’s. A squat witch dressed in mauve graciously welcomed Harry, commending how polite he was. Like the other shop owners, she didn’t notice how he constantly checked behind his back and peered out the windows when he got the chance. 

“An easy customer, how refreshing!” she had said to him. “Just yesterday there was a boy in here – nasty attitude, he had. Treated me like a bloody servant, and he was only your age. Took nearly an hour to get his robe fitted... that’ll be ten galleons, dear.” 

It was time for the most exciting magical object. The thing Harry had been looking forward to the most wasn’t robes or books or golden cauldrons, however, it was the _wand._ His very own magical wand. 

His excitement faltered as he entered Ollivander’s wand shop. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly welcoming; it was dark, silent, and the only living things in sight were the spiders hanging from the ceiling. 

The front windows, which were too dusty to see through from the outside, were full of display wands. The rest of the store looked almost like an old library – full of shelves so high that a ladder was needed to reach the upper levels – but the shelves were full of small rectangular boxes, which Harry guessed held the wands. 

He rang the bell on the counter, lightly at first, and then louder as his impatience grew. After a healthy number of twangs, an old man appeared from behind one of the shelves. Slowly the man hobbled over to the counter, where he greeted Harry. 

“I have been wondering when I would see you, Harry Potter.” the wandmaker said in a gravelly, worn voice. 

Again. _What’s_ _the point of caution if every_ _damn_ _old man in Diagon Alley knows my name?_

“Sir?” 

“I remember every customer I’ve ever had, Harry,” he said. “your mother’s eyes aren’t seen often.” 

Harry looked at the floor. _I have my mother’s_ _eyes?_

Ollivander looked at him sadly. “Come for your first wand, then?” he asked carefully. 

Harry confirmed this, and the old wandmaker disappeared among the shelves for a few minutes. When he returned, his arms were full of wand boxes. 

“We’ll try this batch first,” Ollivander said. “Just pick one, give it a wave and a swish, and move on. The wand picks the wizard, Mr. Potter, and they like to put on a show when they find their wielders.” 

Harry couldn’t see how a stick would _pick_ him, but he decided that the old man’s knowledge on the subject significantly outclassed his own. He grabbed the box nearest him and opened it to reveal a sleek, long, and dark wand. He gripped it familiarly, but it felt wrong and... _unfamiliar_. He waved it vaguely at a chair to his right. 

With a whooshing sound, the chair shot backward, hit the wall, and splintered into large pieces. Harry startled, and placed the wand in its box, muttering apologetically. The wandmaker said nothing, so Harry grabbed another wand. 

This one felt better than the last, but ever so slightly off – like milk that was one day overdue. He pointed it at a stack of papers, figuring it would do less damage than the previous. They burst into flame (to the continued indifference of the wandmaker) and a panicked Harry put it out with a blundered _aguamenti_ , which sprayed water all over the walls and ceiling like a garden sprinkler. 

Harry averted his eyes from the smoldering ashes, once again muttering apologies to Ollivander, who was staring at Harry with a curious gaze. He slowly grabbed yet another wand that was short and thick like a carrot. It felt utterly terrible in his hand, but – might as well give it a try, he thought. Worse feelings had led him right in the past. 

He pointed the stubby wand at the bell. It was metal; surely it would hold up. What resulted was an extremely unpleasant feeling in Harry’s arm; like an ice cube being sucked through a straw, and the bell started violently ringing. He very quickly put the wand away, rubbing his tired arm. He was about to grab another when Mr. Ollivander stopped him. 

“Now, boy, I think you’ve tried enough of these. Give me one minute, won’t you?” he asked. 

_I’ve_ _tried_ _enough?_ Harry thought wildly. _Did I fail? Did I mess up his shop too much?_ Harry’s doubtful thoughts marinated for several minutes before Ollivander returned holding a single box. 

“I’ve seen enough to be convinced that unicorn hair and dragon heartstring aren’t a good fit for you, so I would like you to try this,” he handed Harry the box. “Pheonix feather core. Not many people bond with this type of wand, so I don’t make many anymore... I’ve had this one in stock for decades...” 

That much was clear to Harry; the box was more worn than the others and carried more dust than the displays in the windows. He opened it slowly, revealing a beige medium-length wand. 

“Eleven inches... made of holly,” Ollivander said. “A rather unusual combination of wood and core, but alas, it passed all of my tests.” 

The second Harry wrapped his fingers around the wand, he was filled with warmth. It seemed to be flowing from the wand, through his arm, and into his body... he felt powerful; like he could do anything. The wand was spraying golden and red sparks enthusiastically, the green lightning that haunted his dreams leeched into the front of his mind, but he welcomed them. His mother’s eyes were green, _his_ eyes were green. Why should he be afraid? 

Harry’s scar was buzzing and prickling, but he ignored it. The sparks that rained out of the wand were turning from gold to green... Harry knew. 

_This wand will avenge my parents._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Suggestions and comments are both appreciated and encouraged.
> 
> Sorry for any fucked up formatting btw, pasting from word into AO3 does weird stuff sometimes (like add spaces next to every damn italicization)


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